


Here I am

by Sylvalum



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Cranberry juice, F/M, First Kiss, The Barns (Raven Cycle), Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvalum/pseuds/Sylvalum
Summary: Declan picks up the glass, hands it to her. Feels her fingers brush against his as she takes the glass. Realises that he’s made the exact same move here as he would’ve in DC, offered the business partner, the journalist, the date a drink. Deflection and politeness. Declan is the perfect liar and the perfect host and seeing Jordan’s lips on the glass is making him want to touch her rather badly. He wants to take her by the hand and run away with her like teenagers in a bad film.
Relationships: Jordan/Declan Lynch
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Here I am

Jordan drives them to the Barns.

Declan sits beside her, Matthew in the back, and gives her terse instructions, pointing out the way back to his childhood home to her. Trying not to feel anything but the calmness of a man who’s already well on his way to finding a solution. Trying not to think about the joy of having to get through Ronan’s security system, coming closer with every mile. Trying to think even less about returning to the Barns.

Declan hasn’t belonged in the Barns in a very long time, if he ever did. 

But he does not think of that and he does not think about anything other than the map of Henrietta, and tells Jordan when to turn, warns her as the security system approaches and then he braces himself and - agonising seconds drag on, on - and then they’re through, they’re through and Jordan is gasping for breath and Matthew sniffles in the back, but they’re through.

And here come the green fields, the woods, the buildings. The strange animals and the fallen stars caught in the tree branches, and the birds that aren’t birds, the plants that aren’t plants. Ronan’s kingdom and Ronan’s cage and Ronan’s haven.

“The Barns,” Declan states, meaning it both as a warning and a welcome. A neutral statement. You have arrived at your destination.

“How cosy,” Jordan says, meaning it both as a sarcastic comment and a polite compliment. A neutral answer. I can see we’ve made it.

Declan takes a breath of the air in the car, normal nice boring, and then he opens the door, releases it. Steps outside and breathes in the damp chilly air of an early night at the Barns, dew and grass and wind and all. And for every part of him that releases its tension upon arriving here, getting his nice shoes wet in the muddy grass, there’s another part of him that coils up tight.

Jordan’s door slams shut, and Declan turns and catches her eyes over the hood of the car.

And Jordan’s eyes are the same, even in this damp something-more-than-Henrietta night, same as in the museum, as in the attic of his ruined townhouse. She looks at him, and Matthew’s car door shuts with a muted sound, and Declan feels - not quite as unsettled as before. They’re in the Barns now, behind all of Ronan’s dreamt walls and barricades.

They made it.

* * *

In the kitchen, Declan offers Jordan a glass of something. “Of whatever there is in the fridge,” he suggests, and she accepts, and then Declan has to open the fridge and look at Ronan’s selection of beer and milk and juice and pick up the bottles, look at the dates, suggest whatever is still fresh to her.

“Cranberry juice?”

“Why not,” Jordan says, and then Declan is faced with the task of finding a glass. Declan is sure that Ronan hasn’t moved any of the cutlery or dishes around, yet Declan starts by opening the wrong cupboard, finds a stack of bowls instead of mugs. In the cupboard to the left of that one are the glasses, of course, and he tries not to think of anything as he retrieves a glass and puts it on the counter and pours the juice into it. Task done. He shuts the package and places the juice back inside of the fridge, shuts the door and turns to Jordan.

She’s made no move. She’s lounging gingerly against the counter, looking very much like a guest in manner though not in appearance.

Declan picks up the glass, hands it to her. Feels her fingers brush against his as she takes the glass. Realises that he’s made the exact same move here as he would’ve in DC, offered the business partner, the journalist, the date a drink. Deflection and politeness. Declan is the perfect liar and the perfect host and seeing Jordan’s lips on the glass is making him want to touch her rather badly. He wants to take her by the hand and run away with her like teenagers in a bad film.

He wants to discover what cranberry juice tastes like second-hand, and he is trying very hard to feel only calmness lest he feel everything _ else. _

Jordan drains the glass, puts it down on the counter next to her. Cocks her head and looks at Declan.

“Tell me something,” she says. _ Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else. _

Declan says, “I never bring anyone to the Barns.” _ You’re the only one. _

Because it’s too dangerous. He rarely ever brings anyone to his townhouse either, and if the townhouse is intimate then this is downright scandalous. This is like making out in his parents’ bedroom.

“So are there any genuine traces of Declan here?” Jordan asks. “Or did you tase kid-Declan too and lock him up in your attic?”

Declan regards her for a moment. Then he says, “Come on, then,” and goes to show her his childhood bedroom, heart beating only a fraction faster than his normal.

* * *

After Declan’s tour of the house, in which he tentatively told her not the history of the place but the history of the Lynch family, Jordan tells him she’ll sleep on the sofa. That’s reasonable, he concludes, after a moment. “I’ll fetch some sheets and blankets for you,” he says. He’s not fidgeting; Jordan can’t put her finger on it, but he’s weighing his choices carefully. He’s pausing between words. He is, perhaps, trying to remember how to exist while also revealing something about himself in the process.

Jordan kicks off her shoes and lies down on the massive sofa, testing it out. It’s a well-loved piece of furniture in a well-loved home; it’s made for comfort. The sofa carefully embraces her back, like strangers greeting each other, and then Declan returns with the sheets.

She does help him make the sofa into a makeshift bed, though really she helps very little. Declan Lynch is very good at folding clothes and making beds and laying the table all by himself, and he rearranges the sofa neatly and efficiently, finishing with two plump pillows at one end and a patterned blanket.

“There you go,” he says, neutrally, then takes a step back. He’s stripped out of his jacket and shoes, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

(Brooklyn would’ve given that a lot of points in the attractiveness category. Hennessy would only be bored by the fact that the shirt has buttons)

(But Jordan swore not to think about them tonight)

“Hm,” Jordan says, standing next to Declan with their shoulders almost touching, studying the made-up sofa. “Don’t I get a stuffed animal?”

Declan’s laugh catches in his throat, turns to a cough. Jordan smiles.

“Do you need anything else?” he then asks, ever so polite and standing right next to her, wearing only a shirt and slacks and Jordan can almost feel his body heat against her side. _ No, _ she thinks to herself, but it doesn’t really carry any conviction.

“Let me think,” Jordan says, and turns, feels the slight stutter of her heartbeat as she lays a hand on his arm. Bare skin, beneath her hand. Pale pink and warm beneath her own brown hand.

Declan draws in a breath, and then they’re looking at each other.

_ This this this, _sings something in Jordan’s blood and then Declan’s tilting his head, and Jordan’s parting her lips, and the car rests on top of the crest in the rollercoaster before crashing down. She puts an arm around his neck and pulls him closer, feeling the knobs of his spine through his shirt with her other hand, tasting his lips with her mouth, hearing thunder in her head.

They part. “Jordan,” Declan says, with a thousand words compressed into her name, his hand still on her hip, her hand still on his neck.

Many parts of the Barns would make for great paintings; the meadows, the cows grazing peacefully, the wild forest. The serene homestead. The tractor and and the fence and the sunset. Declan Lynch, standing in the shadowed living room and looking at Jordan with his lips slick from a kiss.

“Declan,” Jordan answers, like he’ll get just as much a kick out of hearing her speak his name as she gets from him saying hers, and he lets out a breath. Not quite a sigh. An exhalation. And then he leans in again, and Jordan figures they can share the sofa. It is, after all, big enough.


End file.
